


The Beauty and the Tragedy

by sweet_neverwhere



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:26:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_neverwhere/pseuds/sweet_neverwhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disjointed collection (eventually) of one-shots. Used to flesh out the relationship of Hawke & Fenris for Unexpected Propositions. Rated mature for smut in future submissions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Week

**Author's Note:**

> This will end up being the dump for my one-shots looking a little deeper into the relationship of my Hawke & Fenris - the things that came before the events in Unexpected Propositions.  
> Chronologically (and logically), they will make no sense, they'll probably jump from one act to the next and back again like a hyperactive child that's been given too much candy.  
> They might be fluffy, smutty, angsty or anything in between.  
> This one is...rather emotionally charged. Given the subject matter, it's understandable.  
> It probably makes very little sense because it's a spur-of-the-moment thing.
> 
> As always, BioWare owns all. I'm just a kid playing in the sandbox.

One week.

It had been one week since he had appeared at her door.  
One week since he had kissed her so passionately.  
One week since he had walked away.  
One week since he broke her heart and left her feeling numb.

On the first day she cried.

On the second day, she stayed in her room and spoke to no one.

On the third day, she drank herself stupid in the Hanged Man but didn't tell Varric or Isabela why.

On the fourth day she received a letter from Bethany and she brightened. Then she wrote her sister a letter telling her  _everything_. It made her feel better, lighter. She couldn't tell her mother. She knew Leandra liked Fenris, but some things she couldn't talk to her about. Especially not when it came to that, to  _him_. But Bethany, sweet Bethany. Hawke's confidant, her little sister and the only one she truly trusted with this. She knew she wouldn't tell anyone, so she had no reservation in telling her exactly what was in her heart; her head.

The letter eased away some of the hurt, the tears that fell onto the page were of blessed relief for being able to spill all her thoughts onto the page. Some of it made little sense, she wrote herself in circles, but it was out there. On paper. She had  _shared_  it, and she felt better for it. He would no longer be a shadow over her heart, though his presence would probably linger there for a long time.

He had killed a small part of her that night when he walked out, but she was damned if she would let it show.

On the fifth day, she gathered Varric and Isabela so they could take Merrill back to the Dalish camp up on Sundermount to get the ancient carving tool that Hawke couldn't pronounce the name of. She was all smiles and jokes, teasing and joining in the idle banter. Generally, she was the same as she always was - but Varric in particular noticed the sadness behind her eyes, the mournful expression she wore when she thought no one was watching. He never asked her directly, he knew it would get him nowhere. But he had noticed the lack of a certain elf as quickly as if she was lacking a shadow. That's what he had become to her, after all. He followed her everywhere, and she would often be found alone in his company just sitting in comfortable silence. Or talking about nothing.

Isabela was the first to suggest the possibility they had slept together on the night Hawke had gotten blind drunk. Obviously, she wasn't drunk enough to divulge what had happened - but her jovial mood had popped like a bubble at the mention of Fenris. All she managed was a sullen "stupid elf" before she sunk into what seemed like a deep depression and hardly spoke for the rest of the night. She was so bad that night that Varric even relinquished his bed so she didn't have to go back to Hightown. He had dozed in his armchair, keeping a careful eye on a very fragile Hawke as she slept. She had muttered the elf's name several times that night; she had cried in her sleep too. Varric made a mental note that he wouldn't let the Tevinter elf off lightly if it was true that he was the cause of his friend's woe.

His blade was sorely missed against the Varterral. Hawke had grown so used to shadowing him in battle, she had fallen into such a sync with him that she was vulnerable without him. It was if she had forgotten how to fight alone, and if not for a well timed thrown dagger from Isabela, Hawke would have most likely been impaled by one of the fell creature's long legs. After the Varterral had finally fallen, Hawke had to be helped back to Keeper Marethari for healing. She laughed most of it off, of course. She blamed everything else of course, but Varric and Isabela exchanged a glance that said they both knew the real cause.

It surprised both the dwarf and the pirate that Hawke decided to give Merrill the Arulin'Holm, but neither of them questioned it. The elven girl was overjoyed and her excited and bouncy return to Kirkwall buoyed Hawke - but there was still a fringe of sadness that followed her, one that only Varric seemed to see. He wanted to call her out, to confront her, but he knew it would do no good and he would probably alienate Hawke by doing so. Her let the issue drop, though he continued to watch her closely.

On the sixth day, Hawke indulged her mother's want to spend money on frivolous things. She followed her around both High and Lowtown playing pack mule for all Leandra's shopping. Her mother bought her eldest a few dresses that she knew she'd probably never wear, some nice shoes for herself (that even Hawke was slightly jealous of) and, to make up for dragging her daughter around, a rather expensive enchanted ring. Hawke didn't have the heart to tell her mother that she found an almost identical one with a stronger enchantment a few weeks earlier in a chest along the Wounded Coast - she would just have to pretend that they were one in the same.

And then it was a week. Part of her wanted to just stay curled up in bed, to sit there remembering everything she could about that fevered night of passion with the man she had wanted for so long. But she found the more she tried to recall the look of raw, primal need in his eyes, all she could see was the deep well of hurt and sorrow she had seen before he walked out.

Seven days. She hadn't seen him since then. Was he still even in the city? Had he not just fled her bedroom, but her life altogether? She was torn in two over her reaction to that possibility. Most of her didn't want to even think about that prospect, that it was too painful a concept to grasp - but a small part of her reasoned that it would be easier to move on if he wasn't around anymore.

Reluctantly,  _very_  reluctantly, she dressed. Even more reluctantly, she steeled her resolve and left the estate. She would go to him, or at least see if he was still around. She didn't want to know the answer, but she had to resolve this. She couldn't even see the way forward at the moment, and confronting him had to grant at least a hint of the path ahead.

Her steps faltered as she reached the top of the stairs to the Hightown Estates and she fumbled the top step. Bracing herself on the wall, she felt as if the ground swayed under her feet. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to not sway on the spot.  _I'm ready for this_ , she told herself over and over even as her resolve guttered.

She forced herself to straighten, opening her eyes and trying to see through the haze of dizziness that threatened to send her bouncing all the way back to the Chantry square. Biting her lip nervously, she peered around the wall into the dark corner where the tattered door to the ramshackle mansion loomed silently. Her stomach flopped as she traced the cracks and crumbling stonework up to the chimney. It was smoking. He was there. Her mouth dry, tongue cleaved firmly to the roof to the point where it was hard to swallow, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was she  _really_  ready to do this? She could run back down the steps and pretend she was going to see Sebastian all along, but instead, she just stood there.

 _Yes,_  she thought, frowning,  _I_ _ **am**_ _ready for this._

Though she hardly believed it.

Holding her breath, she strode up to the door with her head held high. She half expected it to fly open, but it just loomed imposingly in a way it had never done before. The door was more than a door. It was what lay behind it, and the possibilities within. It terrified her.

Swallowing hard, ignoring the sick feeling, and taking a deep breath, Hawke opened the door. She winced at the creak of the hinges, it seemed ten times louder than it normally did and her pulse spiked. The urge to flee made her grip the handle so tightly she thought it might mould itself to her grip, but she would not run. She couldn't. She had to do this.

She was shaking. Letting out a ragged breath, she prised her fingers off the door handle and closed it gently behind her. Fully expecting to see the man she didn't want to see, yet longed to see appear on the landing at any moment, she paused briefly. When he didn't show, she gritted her teeth and strode towards the stairs with more conviction than she truly felt.

At the top of the stairs, she kicked an empty wine bottle and sent it skidding across the unevenly tiled surface with a clatter. She flinched at the sound and curled into herself slightly, chewing at her lower lip with renewed vigour - though if she chewed much harder she would draw blood.

He had been drinking. He had been drinking  _heavily._ And, going on the number of smashed bottled and ruined paintings and furniture, he had been taking his temper out on inanimate objects. But why? Did he feel as hurt as she did? Was it guilt that drove him to it? Or was he just frustrated because he had glimpsed something briefly and couldn't get it back? He probably blamed her, hated her. Maker knows, she felt as if she had used him even though it was him that came to her.

But she wouldn't run. She squared her shoulders and tried to appear as if nothing was wrong. As if the inner turmoil she felt inside wasn't there. She rapped briskly on the door to the room where he spent most of his time and entered.

He had dragged one of the armchairs that were usually by the table over by the fire, the back towards the door. There were bottles stood like soldiers by both arms and even though she couldn't see him, she knew the chair was occupied by the way it sagged. She could see one bare arm hanging over the side and he had his feet propped up on the bench he had pulled in front of him.

"Get out." It was a barked order, his voice spiteful and full of malice. It promised danger, should it be disobeyed. Hawke stopped instantly, swallowing hard against the knot in her throat as she tried to recover the pieces of her resolve. It was no good, it had scattered at the sound of his voice, hoarse from too much drink and too little sleep.

Reluctantly, she found her voice, though it was far more shaky and weak than she'd like. "Is that what you want, Fenris?"

He shot up from the chair so fast that she jumped, dropping the book she forgot she was carrying and staring at him like a rabbit caught in the sights of a predator. Her heart thudded in her chest as she met and held his gaze. He looked alarmed to see her there, but there was no anger. He looked tired, but above everything, he looked  _sad._

"No." It was a whisper, drawn from his lips before he had a chance to stop it. The simple truth. Her leaving was the last thing he wanted. "Why are you here, Hawke?"

She blinked at him dumbly for a moment before her eyes darted about, looking for an excuse. Anything other than tell him she wanted to see him, wanted to make sure he was okay. Suddenly, she couldn't just tell him she wanted to make sure he hadn't run off - and she certainly couldn't ask him what last week was about. Her eyes fell on the book and she stooped to pick it up.

"I uh…" she ran her fingers over the gilt letters branded into the well-worn cover as she attempted to stop her voice from giving her away. "I brought you a new book to read. You've been doing so well recently, I thought you'd want to step up. This," her voice quivered and shook. She dug her short nails into the faded canvas while she tried to regain what little composure she could. "This was one of my favourite books as a child. It's one of the few things I managed to save from the Blight when we fled." She trembled visibly as she recalled the moment, frowning and closing her eyes as she heard her mother chastising her for saving a book of all things. But Hawke couldn't help it, it reminded her so much of her father - reading to her night after night.

Fenris stared, watching her trembling knuckles turn white as she clutched at the book. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to take the book from her and hold her in his arms. To kiss her, to comfort her. But he couldn't, he just stood as if rooted to the spot, watching as she opened her eyes again.

"I uh," she cleared her throat, trying to force down the traitorous stinging in her eyes. She wouldn't cry here because he would know that her tears were not from the memory of Lothering. "I think…I would like you to have it." She nodded, mostly to herself, as she held it out towards him.

"No Hawke. I couldn't take something so precious from you." His voice was so gentle, so soft. She hated him for it.

"Too late for that," she muttered under her breath, refusing to meet his eye as she still held out the book. She saw him stiffen, however, and inwardly cursed his good hearing. "Just take the damn book, Fenris." She demanded with more conviction than she felt.

Reluctantly, he stepped forward silently and took the book, turning it so he could read the golden letters on the cover. 'Cautionary Tales for the Adventurous". It wasn't a thick volume, but it had obviously been read many times. Fenris was a little in awe of it, despite it being just a simple book. It wasn't just a 'simple book' though. It was Hawke's memories, a cherished item that she had saved from the Blight's path. And she was giving it to him. He was speechless.

"If you get stuck or…anything," she said, breaking the silence that had felt uncomfortable for the first time for years. "Just let me know and…well, I know it off by heart anyway so…"

"Thank you, Hawke."

She nodded haltingly, giving him a weak smile. The last of her resolve fled and she took a step back, turning to go.

Fenris let her, unsure of what to say - and even if he knew, he didn't know  _how_  to say it. He wanted to stop her from leaving, but he didn't know what to do if he did. "Hawke, wait…" He blinked, puzzled slightly and wondering if that had truly been him calling for her to stop.

She paused in the doorway, turning slightly and resting a hand on the rotting doorframe.

"I…" It was his turn for his voice to falter. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but he didn't know what those things were. And he wanted, above everything, to apologise. But he just couldn't find his voice anymore.

She smiled weakly. "I know, Fenris," it was like she had read his mind. "Just know that what I told you last week…it's still true. And always will be." She paused, frowning at the splintering wood. "I will always be here, Fenris, and I will wait for you. But if you want to leave," her voice broke, eyes squeezing shut as she forced back her emotions so she could continue. "If you want to leave, I won't stop you." Then she couldn't bear it any longer, and she left quickly and quietly without looking back. She didn't stop walking until she got home.

Fenris merely stood, Hawke's book in his hands, staring at the empty doorway. His heart pounded in his ears as he replayed what she had said. Looking down at the worn cover of the book, he ran his fingers over the gilt letters like Hawke had done - but he didn't see them even though he ran his eyes over them. All he could hear was a memory. An echo of Hawke's words from that night. The declaration she had mentioned, a stab that drove deep into his heart and hurt far more than any blade.

" _I love you, Fenris._ "


	2. Of Keys and Considerations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away from me.  
> It's rambling and a little bit crap but somehow I like it.  
> Don't ask me how.
> 
> This is set a few days after Hawke returns home from the Deep Roads (she went with Varric, Fenris and Anders) and finds Cullen taking Bethany to the Gallows. I know in the game we don't get the letter from Bethany until three years later, but as I understand it they put all adult apostates through the Harrowing as soon as they arrive.
> 
> In my head, Hawke doesn't leave the house properly until she's received word that her sister is alive. But when she does leave the house, what is she going to do? Hehehe, would have thought the answer to that is obvious.

Hawke felt numb. Everything about her felt heavy and slow, as if she was moving through molasses. The walk up the steps from Lowtown to Hightown took her three times as long that night but she found she didn’t care. She didn’t even know where she was going. Away from Lowtown, that was for sure. Away from the smell of the docks wafting up and the stench of the foundries drifting down. Away from the evening buzz of people as they returned home from their places of work. Away from the Hanged Man and the card game that Varric had declared.

Hightown was silent. The market was deserted at this time of night and the moon cast deep shadows which made the empty stalls seem oddly eerie. A lone guard watch her, recognising her as a friend of the Captain as she drew close and offering her a stiff greeting. Hawke merely nodded and continued on. Unseeing eyes fixed on the floor just ahead of her, her feet taking her up the steps from the market and right towards the Viscount’s Keep.

She paused a moment outside the abandoned Amell estate, staring at the blank shields either side of the door which used to have the family crest emblazoned in red. An unbidden sigh escaped her lips as she recalled her mother’s enthusiasm that morning when she had received a letter from the Seneschal telling her that the estate was theirs to purchase if they had the gold. Hawke couldn’t share her joy, knowing that Bethany wouldn’t be there to enjoy it with them. Just two people in that big, empty house. It just seemed wrong. She would buy it, of course, if just for her mother’s sake. But she was sorely tempted to leave Kirkwall altogether, perhaps buy a small house out in the Free Marches countryside somewhere. Somewhere ‘adventure’ was a word never uttered by sane people. But she doubted that would ever happen.

With another solemn glance at the dour looking building, Hawke turned away and drifted towards the Chantry square. As she always did, she cast her eyes upwards to the great stone building and it’s imposing bronze statues outside. It was probably the most impressive Chantry outside of Orlais. To Hawke, it screamed of both oppression and salvation in equal measure. Most of the time she avoided religion, but sometimes she was just compelled to seek sanctuary within the reassuring peace that could be found in every Chantry across Thedas. She remembered the Lothering Chantry and the nights she had spent just sitting in silence after her father’s death. Briefly, the thought to climb the steps and relive one of those nights danced through her brain but it didn’t linger. She wasn’t in the mood for religious claptrap tonight, nor was she in the mood to make small talk with Sebastian, who would inevitably gravitate towards her.

Instead, she found herself by the Chanters board, reading the notices posted but not really taking any of it in. Such banal trivialities were posted. Lost lapdogs, missing wedding rings - nothing of substance, nothing of interest. And it wasn’t as if she needed the coin, going on what Varric was hinting the Deep Roads would set her up for the foreseeable future. If not life.

Folding her arms over her chest and huddling in on herself as if she were cold (impossible, considering the time of year), Hawke turned towards the stairs in thought.

There were two options here.

The steps down would take her all the way into Darktown where she could take the little-known back alley towards Anders’s clinic. He would be there, of course. He was always there. She could go and talk to him about her sister and he would be sympathetic. The man who had escaped the Ferelden circle not just once but seven times. And then had escaped the Grey Wardens as well. The man was, by all accounts, an escape artist. But Hawke feared him and that spirit he harboured. She feared that he would suggest risking Bethany’s life by trying to break her out. And to what end? To put her family back on the run? And it wouldn’t just be a case of getting her sister out, there was also the problem of the phylactery. No. Hawke wouldn’t be visiting Anders.

The steps up would take her to the Hightown Estates. Such a fancy place to live, second only to where her family’s mansion was situated. All the big names lived up there. DuPuis, De Launcet, Harimann. Most of them had Orlesian heritage, those that didn’t were old families from the Free Marches. Once upon a time, the Amell name was included in that list, but now they were remembered for the way Gamlen pissed it all away and how Leandra ran off with a Ferelden Apostate. Hawke thought with bitter irony that buying back the family estate would upset the apple cart by bringing back the Amell lineage. But she wasn’t and Amell. She was the daughter of Malcolm **Hawke**. And when the crests were repainted on the shields outside the mansion door, it would be known as the _Hawke Estate_. As far as Hawke was concerned, the Amell line stopped at Gamlen.

But the Hightown Estates weren’t just home to snobby nobles. There was that one, rundown mansion up there that was giving Aveline a headache. Or rather, the squatter who was calling the rundown mansion ‘home’ was giving Aveline a headache. Simply by being there. And also by letting the corpses of slavers rot in the main hall. That didn’t help.

Hawke let herself smile slightly as she made up her mind to go and see Aveline’s headache. She knew he wouldn’t be sympathetic to her troubles, but she also knew that he wouldn’t come up with suicidal missions that shouldn’t be given a moments thought. And perhaps, she thought to herself, she didn’t _want_ sympathy. She just wanted someone to talk to, someone to listen without shoving their opinion down her throat unless she asked for it. Fenris was just the person for that, and Hawke valued him greatly.

The aged door sat unimposing, the small window by the side of it showed nothing but the gloom inside the mansion. It was always like that, even in bright daylight - unsurprising, considering Fenris lived only in one room. Even though the place was decrepit and silently intimidating, Hawke always found it a welcoming sight. She felt a strange sort of comfort as she walked towards the door, but she knew it was the resident and not the house that made her feel such.

Turning the handle and shouldering the door open from where it had swelled and stuck in the frame, she slipped into the foyer and kneed the door closed behind her. Unusually, the inner door was closed and the area she stood in was lit by only one dim torch rather than the usual two. Frowning, she entered the dark main hall and winced when the door hinges squealed in protest. She closed that door behind her too. Casting a brief glimpse at the ruined furniture, cobwebs and dusty corners, she couldn’t help but sigh. Moonlight poured through the alarmingly dilapidated roof, but that was the only light in the dark main hall - save for another torch lit just outside the room where Fenris spent all of his ‘home’ time.

Figuring that he had probably heard the hinges, Hawke decided to head on up the stairs towards his room. Even so, she politely rapped on the half-closed door before she poked her head around it. Only the room was totally empty. Frowning, she pushed open the door and wandered in, puzzled and more than a little disappointed. He wasn’t home.

 _Of course you’re not home,_ she thought, mournfully, _why would you be?_ Sighing heavily, she sagged into an armchair and dropped her head into her palm with her elbow on the padded arm. He was probably all the way back down in Lowtown, playing Wicked Grace or Diamondback with Varric. She had walked past the Hanged Man to get to Hightown, she should have just stuck her head around the door to check who was there. Anders was probably there too, most likely losing serious coin to the elf that hated him. It was just as well that she didn’t decide on a trek to Darktown after all. Her eyes stared aside to the dwindling fire in the hearth without really seeing it. The dancing flames were hypnotic, however, and she slowly found herself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

It was gone midnight before Fenris returned home, entering through a downstairs window that was permanently ajar to avoid having to shoulder the door open. Then he ignored the main door into the hall and turned left towards the kitchen. Or, more accurately, the cellar. He emerged a few moments later carrying a bottle of red wine in one gauntleted hand, little finger absentmindedly tapping the point of his glove on the glass. Entering the main hall through a side door that didn’t have noisy hinges. He usually took that entrance when he was returning home, it made it easier to creep up on unwanted intruders if they didn’t know he was coming. But his ‘borrowed’ mansion seemed as empty as when he had left it, so he began unlatching his breastplate as he ascended the steps.

He froze as he entered his living room. His mansion _wasn’t_ empty. For a brief moment he considered running, or drawing his sword, but these thoughts fled when he realised just who the intruder was.

Slouched in one of the armchairs, on the verge of slipping off her hand, was a very deeply asleep Hawke.

Frowning in confusion at the sight of seeing her in his home and so relaxed, Fenris tilted his head to get a better look at her from where he stood at the doorway. She was armoured, but not armed (apart from, he guessed, the several hidden knives she kept on her person). Blinking, Fenris looked at the bottle in his hand before gently putting it down on the table just inside the door without making a sound. Equally silently, he continued to unbuckle his chest plate and remove his vambraces and gauntlets, his pauldrons and arm straps followed suit.

Please she hadn’t woken, Fenris left his armour in a neat pile on one of the benches and went to locate two clean goblets. He could only find one completely clean, the other was clean enough for him so he would give Hawke the unused one. Picking up the corkscrew on the way back, he slid the goblets onto the table with little sound and picked up the bottle. Uncorking it quickly, he poured out a measure into each goblet. The sound of the sloshing wine roused Hawke slightly and she repositioned her chin more firmly into her palm. With a faint smile, Fenris picked up her goblet and padded over. Kneeling in front of her, he took in her sleeping face, noting with worry that she had developed rather dark circles around her eyes and even asleep she looked…very sad. For something to bring her to his home at night meant it wasn’t trivial, but to see Hawke appearing worn even when asleep - that wasn’t a good sign.

Over the past few months he had grown increasingly fond of the woman, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself completely. He admired her courage and conviction, the way she stood buy her choices even when others (including himself) didn’t agree with them. She had clear boundaries - she had shown pity on the elf-blooded boy Feynriel when he wished to join the Dalish, yet had sent Grace and her lot back to the circle with no mercy. It was commendable, if slightly foolhardy. There was something more to her as well. A warmth, a deep caring that went beyond mere professionalism. She saw him as a friend, a completely alien concept to Fenris. She saw more than a strangely marked elf brandishing a large sword, she saw more than a socially inept former slave - though what exactly she saw was a mystery to him. And then there was the flirting, which she didn’t do to anyone but him…

She was a rare gem, the likes he had never seen before. He had never considered being with anyone before she came along, there was no one trustworthy or willing to trust enough that the thought ever came up. But as he looked up into her sleeping face, the idea danced past. Could he even entertain such thoughts, hunted as he was? Was there truly anything behind her flirting? He told her he could see himself staying for the right reasons. Was it possible that _she_ was the only reason? Of course, logic told him that he found himself in a favourable position should Danarius come for him - he was a companion of a formidable fighter who had other skilled warriors by her side. She had promised him that she would stand by him and fight for his freedom, but again it all came down to her. When Danarius was dead, what then? He honestly couldn’t see much of a future beyond staying with her for as long as she wished it.

Had he tied himself to her so completely in such a short time? And what exactly was it that bound him?

She shifted slightly in her sleep and pulled Fenris out of his thoughts. He needed to wake her, sleeping in the chair would do her no good. But he didn’t want to make noise and startle her, she needed to be pulled from her slumber peacefully. He struggled to imagine how to do that other than by doing something he hadn’t done in a long time. Looking down at his long, lyrium-etched fingers, he flexed them in thought. Apprehension crashed down on him at the very thought of touching Hawke, age-old fears caused new ones of hurting her accidentally spring up. Forcing his eyes closed, he pushed back those thoughts with ferocity. If he even wanted to consider being with anyone - with _her_ \- he would have to get over this aversion. And it would only be by force of will.

Setting his jaw in determination, he opened his eyes to look at his hand again. The white scarring up both the top and bottom of his fingers repulsed him, a constant reminder of why he still wasn’t free, but he decided that those particular unproductive thoughts were best left for another time. Instead, he focused on Hawke’s bare forearm which rested on the arm of the chair. She wasn’t wearing any gloves, Fenris noted, and added it to the list of why something seemed wrong with her tonight. She just didn’t leave her house without some form of glove on.

Trying to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, Fenris reached out to her and gently laid the pads of his fingertips on the back of her hand. The warmth of her skin caused gooseflesh to break out over his, every hair on his head standing on end as his fingers worked in small, halting circles over her wrist. Her marvelled at the softness of her skin, how smooth the back of her hand was despite the punishment her hands seemed to receive on a daily basis. There was the odd faint line from old scars, the occasional raised freckle, but other than that her skin was blemish free.

The feeling of movement, of warmth on her skin, gently pulled Hawke from her dreamless doze. Her face scrunched up as her brain protested, wanting to sleep more, but her eyes fluttered open even so. What she saw made her pause. Fenris resting on his haunches, his eyes fixed on his hand which was…tracing circles on her forearm. She blinked a few times, looking around to see if anything was moving strangely just to make sure this wasn’t a Fade experience. Involuntarily, she took a sharp intake of breath and the moment shattered. Fenris’s eyes snapped to hers as his hand pulled away. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks in a furiously red blush as all she could come out was a dumb “hey”. Fenris’s expression was unreadable, but Hawke thought that, just for a moment, there was a raw heat lingering there. Of course, it could have been her imagination running wild with her.

She stared dumbly at the goblet of red wine as it was pressed into her hands, like she had never seen one in her life before and didn’t know what to do with it. Fenris merely stood back and pick up his own goblet as if that strangely intimate moment never happened.

“Something you want, Hawke?” His voice jarred her and her head jerked upwards in surprise. His tone wasn’t harsh, though it did sound slightly confused. Hawke merely blinked at him.

 _You_ , said the voice in her head. Her mouth, however, said something far more sensible. “Yes. In a way.” She let her gaze fall back down to the wine, the dark surface reflecting her tired eyes. “I wanted your company. I…” her voice broke, unshed tears cracking it and causing her to squeeze her eyes shut tight. “Bethany’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“I haven’t told anyone but,” her voice trembled and a small part of her dearly wanted someone to hold her hand. “The reason why she hasn’t come to the Hanged Man, the reason I haven’t been to the Hanged Man is…she joined the Circle.”

“She’s in the Gallows?” Hawke merely nodded, sullenly gazing into her wine again. Fenris was at a loss. To his shame, a small spiteful part of him said that was where she should be and should have been all along - but oddly he silenced those thoughts quickly. He had grown to like Hawke’s younger sister, she was a strong mage with a healthy respect for her powers and the demons it was likely to attract. And she was Hawke’s sister, and the unexpected fondness he felt for the woman sitting in front of him spilled over to encompass her family too. It was all very new and strange.

“She volunteered.” Hawke continued, frowning in thought. “Mother said she wrote a letter to Cullen confessing her apostasy. She told mother that she didn’t want to hold the family back anymore.” She sounded as if she was going to cry but her eyes remained dry and fixed on her goblet. “Did I do that, Fenris? Did I make her feel as if she was holding me back?”

“Do not blame yourself Hawke.”

“I can’t _not_ blame myself, Fenris.” She met his gaze with a short-lived ferocity. “But the Templars were getting suspicious. Maker, why didn’t I take her into the Deep Roads?”

“And risk losing her to the Blight? Would that have been better?” Hawke shied away at his firm but even tone. Always the voice of reason.

“I’ve still lost her, Fenris. The Gallows is corrupt, surely even you can see that? The mages there are not to be trusted. I wish now that we’d killed Grace, rather than take her to the Circle.”

Fenris sighed, frowning at the top of Hawke’s bowed head. Could she not see that her sister was safe? “Hawke, your sister is not dead and she is strong enough to resist whatever corruption might be festering within the Circle. You cannot take the blame for something that could not be helped.”

For a moment, Fenris thought she might argue. Her gaze met his, questioning and deep in thought. She opened her mouth to speak, taking in a breath as if she was about to launch into a tirade. Instead, she just huffed and deflated, sagging into the chair. Into herself. “I suppose you’re right. As usual.” She muttered, lifting her goblet to her lips. Fenris couldn’t help but arch a brow when she proceeded to drink all her wine in one go.

“I’m sorry Fenris, it’s late. I should have realise you would be at the Hanged Man but I just…” She tilted the goblet back and forth in her fingers, watching a small bead of wine dribble around the inside.

“Why come to me, Hawke?”

He sounded so confused, was that a hint of frustration in his voice? Hawke looked at him, her own face a picture of surprise at his question. She held his gaze for a little while before she let her eyes dance down to the floor, scanning the broken and lifting tiles in thought. “I…trust you. I know you won’t suggest some stupid rescue mission like Anders would, or end up patronising me like pretty much everyone else. You’re…” she fought to find the correct word, deciding that ‘sane’ didn’t apply to anyone in her little group - least of all her. “You’re stable. Sensible. True. It’s what I like about you.” She shrugged noncommittally, trying to play down all the other words of admiration that wanted to slip out of her mouth. Whether he knew it or not, Fenris meant a lot to Hawke.

“I see.” She trusted him? To the point where he was the first person she had come to with this. Not Varric or Aveline, not that blighted mage. Him. He had to wonder how far that trust went, how deep these feelings ran - not just for her, but for himself as well. He found that _he_ trusted _her_ more than anyone else. He hadn’t even trusted the Fog Warriors to the same extent.

“I…well. It’s late.” Hawke nodded to herself, forcing her tired legs to stand as she returned her goblet to the table. It must be well past midnight, by the time she got back home she might be able to get a few hours sleep before she was roused by her mother. “I should be getting home, I’ll leave you to your rest.”

She took one step forward but halted immediately as Fenris blocked her path, shaking his head. “I cannot let you walk all the way back to Lowtown in the middle of the night, Hawke.”

“Then what? You’ll escort me? I don’t think that’s wise considering you’d have to walk all the way back up here at an even later hour.” A laugh played on the edge of her words, a smile playing on her lips. Though truthfully, she was now thoroughly curious. And confused.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind?”

“Oh? And what _did_ you have in mind.” She smiled, coyly, teasing him despite the tiredness that crept around the edges of her vision. She was beginning to wonder if she would even make it back to Lowtown if he let her go. She might just collapse halfway down the stairs and sleep there.

“Follow me.” Waving one hand, he led her out of his room and turned a sharp left at the door. Hawke followed diligently, trying to ignore the feeling that her legs felt like lead and her head was starting to swim from the creeping effect of the wine (which had either been strangely strong, or her tolerance was at an all time low). Taking a large iron key out from one of his pouches on his belt, he unlocked the door and opened it with a squeal of protest from the hinges. Hawke followed him in and instantly sneezed from the dust.

“This is the only guest bedroom without a hole in the ceiling. I generally use it for storing my old equipment, but the bed is clear and usable. You are welcome to use it any time you wish.” He gestured to the bed before offering the key to Hawke. She blinked at it for a moment before frowning at him in confusion. He was giving her a key to his home? Did he really mean that?

“Are you sure?”

 _No, I‘m not._ He tried to smile reassuringly, but didn‘t quite pull it off, so he merely nodded. “I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t.”

Reluctantly, Hawke took the key and turned it over in her fingers with a faint smile on her face. As Fenris walked past her to exit the room, she turned sharply and brushed her fingers against his arm. Then she realised how forward that was of her (with someone like Fenris at least) and pulled back sharply. Still, she tried to hold his gaze and smile at him. “Thank you, Fenris. Really.” _You don’t need to do any of this for me._

“You’re welcome, Hawke. Sleep well.” The door closed behind him with a squeak and a click and Hawke tucked the key into a pocket.

She didn’t remember removing her armour until she was dressed in the under-padding. She didn’t remember getting into bed. But that night she slept better than she had in years.


	3. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was...very hard to write.  
> Having lost my own mother recently, I relate very well to Hawke's reaction. How they never once cried in game, as I myself never cried around family. I understand what it's like to take over as head of the household, how you can't show how you really feel around the people you care about because they need you to be strong.
> 
> Hawke, however, has one comfort I never had. One person that they didn't need to be strong around, that they could open up around. I was very disappointed with BioWare about the way they handled the LI around Leandra's death. We had a too-short 'consolation' scene with the LI and that was it. Aveline's scene was longer but even then it was because she was talking about herself.
> 
> So, this is what happens in my head after that pathetically short scene in Hawke's bedroom. It's not very well written because...well, it's hard when those wounds are still raw. But I needed to get this down and out of my head.

There was no rowdy celebration in the Hanged Man that night. There was no raised glasses or toasts to a well-earned victory. There was only silence, and sorrow. It was the usual group, a cluster of people held together simply because of one person…and that one person wasn’t there. Her chair sat empty next to Isabela and no one looked at it - if anything they all avoided looking at it. Most didn’t know the details, but they had found out soon enough - and it sent a shockwave through the whole group. Tempers flared as fingers were pointed and accusations flung like shards of glass. It did them no good, for it could not turn back time.

Hawke’s mother was dead, murdered and butchered by a madman.

Part of Fenris screamed ‘I told you so’, but that was silenced by the overwhelming part that felt Hawke’s hurt as his own. He had hurled his anger towards the mage and the witch, cursing them to the Void as if they were to blame. And when Anders had the nerve to try and turn the argument around and blame _him_ , it had taken both Aveline and Varric to intervene - if they hadn’t the mage wouldn’t still be alive.   
But with his anger gone, all that was left was an empty feeling. As empty as the chair opposite. Even after what had happened between them, Hawke still treated him as her friend. Indeed, many times he had been a guest at their dinner table. He had grown to know Leandra. She was a kind woman, free from the prejudices expected of nobility. Like her daughter, Lady Amell didn’t care that he was an elf, or a fugitive (though Hawke had confided that questions had been asked at first), and Fenris figured that it came from her personal experiences. She had run off with an apostate after all, and had jumped from being nobility to a peasant for the man she loved. It wasn’t hard for Fenris to draw similarities between the mother and her eldest daughter when it came to their choice in men, though he tried to avoid thinking on it for too long. It brought up too many questions about what he truly was to Hawke, questions he didn’t want to answer yet.

He hadn’t realised he was staring, mournfully, at the empty chair. His eyes were blind to it, seeing only the horrible moment when the shambling corpse of the once proud Amell woman fell into her daughter’s arms. The body, though it was not completely Leandra’s (a ghastly thought in an of itself), was given a simple cremation earlier that night. Hawke had said nothing. She hadn’t spoken a word since Leandra fell still, and Fenris could not think of anything that might be of comfort. He felt woefully inadequate, that all he knew was killing and running. He had tried to find happiness in Hawke’s arms, he still knew it was there if he wanted it, but his own cowardice had stopped him. And as for comfort? He didn’t even know where to begin.

Varric watched him silently over Bianca’s stock, his fingers rubbing the polishing cloth over her brass inlay. He had noticed the broody elf’s glances at the empty chair, the sorrowful look of longing in those normally harsh and glaring eyes. He was well aware of what had happened between them, he also knew that whatever feelings they had for each other still lingered - though why they danced around each other was beyond him. Casually he swept his gaze over the face of all those present, finding the same expression on each of their faces in varying degrees. But only the elf hunched over in his chair, openly acknowledging the space that Hawke had left.

Clearing his throat, he put down the cloth and looked out over the table. “I think it’s time to head home, Hawke doesn’t need us like this.” There was a murmur of agreement from around the table and they all began to stand and file out. “If I might have a word, elf?” Varric looked directly at Fenris, who’s steely demeanour had returned tenfold.

“What is it, dwarf?” Varric heard the animosity in Fenris’s words but ignored them, knowing that it was mostly just an act now anyway - especially tonight.

“Why are you here tonight?” The dwarf’s eyes had wandered back to Bianca, his thumb casually brushing over the fire rune that Bodahn’s boy had fitted. Even so, he noticed the change in posture from the elf as he demanded to know what he meant by that question. Varric held out his free hand to placate him. “I was merely curious as to why you decided to come to the Hanged Man instead of seeing how Hawke was holding up?”

“I could ask you the same thing, _Varric._ ” Fenris spat back, his lips curing up into a snarl as he loomed over the table at the dwarf. Wasn’t he meant to be her (self titled)‘best friend’ after all?

“Well, for one she told me to stay away and I’m not going to chance myself with her daggers.” He chuckled, casually waving off the elf’s threat. “And second…” his eyes shot to read Fenris’s reaction, “I’m not romantically involved with her.”

Fenris bristled, a fist slamming into the table and making the cups jump from the force. “And what gave you the impression that I _am_ , dwarf?”

Sceptically, Varric’s eyes flicked momentarily to the red favour about his wrist and the Hawke crest upon his waist before he shrugged, unceremoniously indifferent to the threat of violence that hung over the other side of the table. “Take it easy, Broody. All I’m saying is that she cares for you a whole lot more than she cares for me. Or anyone else when it comes to it. Someone needs to try and reach her, all this moping isn’t doing her any good.”

While still annoyed, Fenris couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree to what the dwarf was saying. Visibly deflating, he sagged and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “What do you suggest I do? I doubt she’d want to see _me_ either.” He sounded irritated, but it was half-hearted and directed inwards.

“Just…go and see her, elf. Make sure she hasn’t done anything stupid.” Varric stood then, resting Bianca on his shoulder as he walked towards the stairs that lead to the back rooms of the tavern. He knew Fenris wasn’t watching him go, but he spoke over his shoulder even so. “I don’t like to leave her alone either, but I have had my orders to stay away. I just thought you would have better luck.”

* * *

Though Fenris had scoffed at Varric’s idea at first, by the time he got to the top of the stairs to Hightown he was seriously considering it. And it only seemed to get harder not to go to her front door with every step he took. He would have to go right by her estate just to get home. It was very late, however, and he had to wonder if she would even still be awake.

Off in the distance, the Chantry bell struck the midnight hour just as Fenris reached the square in front of the Viscount’s Way. He paused under the arch, considering the pair of crest-emblazoned shields either side of the alcove. The lower floor windows showed only darkness, but he could still see the faint glow of the sconces on the upper floors. Was it truly as easy as the dwarf made it sound? Just go to her? His jaw clenched and unclenched, his fists balling and relaxing as he considered his options. He could be a coward and ignore the pull he felt to go in…or he could go in and be told to leave.

 _Stupid elf,_ he chided himself, frowning at the empty space between him and the door, _what are you afraid of? Coward._ Steeling his resolve, he walked towards the mansion and opened the door. The outer hall was pitch black, the only light a faint glow under the inner door from the dwindling fire in the hearth. The servants were probably in bed, he figured, so he ignored the gong and tried the handle. As expected, it wasn’t locked - Hawke only locked it when she was headed to bed, and she had not yet done so.

What he wasn’t expecting was a rather angry looking dwarf standing in his way. Bodahn had the look of an overprotective father as he blocked Fenris’s path, glaring up at him. “The Mistress isn’t taking visitors, messere.” Though his words were polite, there was a passive-aggressive undertone that was unmistakable. It just screamed ‘get out’.

But Fenris wasn’t going anywhere. He matched Bodahn’s glare as he lifted the strap of his scabbard over his head and rested the exposed tip of the blade against the wall without breaking eye contact. “You will not stop me from seeing her, Bodahn.” His voice was calm and even, but he mirrored the dwarf’s threat almost perfectly.

Fenris was expecting an argument, so he was more than a little surprised when the dwarf deflated and stepped aside. “I figured as much. And it does her no good to isolate herself. But do be _careful_ , messere.” The way Bodahn emphasised ‘careful’ made Fenris pause as he sat his weapon by the door. He doubted it was meant for him specifically, more a warning to be careful _with her_. Given her mental state when she left the group earlier, he doubted he would find the normal Hawke waiting for him.

He noticed as he reached the top step that her bedroom door was still open, but her Mabari had flopped down just outside. The dog didn’t lift his head when he saw Fenris, but his tail thumped weakly on the floor and he let out a muffled grunt. He had totally forgotten that the hound too had been present under that foundry. The grunt had alerted Hawke and she watched him enter with almost no reaction, her eyes just devoid of expression. Just a bone-weary tiredness and a sadness that made his heart ache. He had seen that look only once before, and she had been sitting in pretty much the same position.

“I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” It came out far more earnestly than he thought it would, he had feared his inexperience would show. He expected anger, for her to tell him to get out. Instead, she just frowned at him, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Just say something, anything.” Her voice was pleading, strained at the edges - Fenris had never heard her sound so…vulnerable. But more than that, he found himself at an utter loss for words. He wasn’t expecting that response and floundered for a moment, blinking in surprise.

“They say death is only a journey…does that help?” He stepped forwards, forcing himself to break from his frozen place by the door. It wasn’t an eloquent thing to say, and he doubted it was helpful, but it was the first thing his brain sent to his mouth. He could have blamed it on the long and emotionally draining day, but really, he didn’t know the first thing about comforting someone - especially not someone he cared about so much. He should never have come here in the first place.

Hawke was staring into the fire, still frowning in thought, and there was a silence that pulled on forever. Or at least it seemed like forever. Then she laughed - only slightly and only very briefly. Had Fenris not been paying very close attention, he would have missed it. “It just raises more questions,” she told the fire, “journey to where?”

For a moment, Fenris saw the Hawke he knew, but it was fleeting. The cloud of melancholia lifted just enough for a hint at humour, only to come crashing back down in the span of a heartbeat. With a sigh, he went to the bed and sat next to her, ignoring the memory of the last time he felt how comfortable her bed was. “I don’t know, it’s just something people say.” His eyes met hers then and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking one of her hands. “To be honest, I don’t think there is much point in filling these moments with empty talk.”

Hawke broke eye contact, looking down at her fingers as they knotted together idly. “I suppose you’re right.” The sigh was heavy in her voice. She wanted empty talk, it took away the biting feeling of blame that ate at her heart. She swallowed thickly, playing with her hands but keeping her mouth shut until the silence became heavy.

“Try to get some sleep, Hawke.” Fenris finally broke the silence, standing with as much ease as possible - though it was hard to leave her. He barely chanced a glance back at her before he left the room, and as he suspected, she was merely looking at him startled. With a heavy, muted sigh, he padded silently down the stairs and tried not to look back. If he looked back, he might never leave - and he _needed_ to leave. He couldn’t give her the comfort she needed, he didn’t even know why he even came in the first place. _Damn dwarf._

Halfway towards picking up his greatsword, the sound of rushing footsteps behind him caused him to turn around just in time to see Hawke heading towards him at speed. Startled, Fenris could only brace himself as she crashed into him. For her own safety she had slowed, expertly missing the sharp edges on his armour as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek into his shoulder. Instinctively, Fenris froze, hesitant to do anything other than stand there while she clung to him as if he was about to vanish. It was only when he felt the first sob shudder through her that he made any movement. His heart twisted in his chest at the feel of it, his arms a wrapping around her shoulders and his cheek pressing against the back of her head as he felt her tremble and shake as another silent sob was muffled into his shoulder.

He had never seen Hawke cry before, he doubted anyone had - and he had never been close enough to anyone to offer a hint of comfort. Part of him wanted to push her away, to tell her to stop crying and go back to bed. Her cries were silent, though he felt each of them through his armour, and he figured that even if he wasn’t there she’d be crying anyway. That she would tolerate him and his pathetic excuse for consolation was unexpected - the fact that she was now crying her eyes out on his shoulder was something else entirely. He could feel her hands on his shoulders, her short nails digging into the hardened spirit leather of his pauldrons as she clung desperately to him.

“It’s all my fault, Fenris.” Her breathing calmed, her sobs trailing off to leave her trembling in their wake. She sounded weak, tired, frail. And vulnerable. “I should have saved her.”

“There was nothing you could have done, Hawke.”

“There’s _always_ something that I could have done. If we had Quentin’s hideout back when Ninette was -”

“We combed that place from top to bottom, there was nothing to be found.” His voice was firm but gentle, barely a murmur into the top of her head. Secretly, he despaired that they hadn’t found anything. But there was nothing too find.

“But I could have pressed mother for details of her suitor, I could have been here when the lilies arrived instead of gallivanting around the countryside.”

Fenris winced, knowing that what she said was true - but everyone is an expert after the event. How was Hawke to know what was going to happen? Even that maleficar said he didn’t realise that anyone would be taken so soon after Alessa. He wanted to say that there really wasn’t any way of knowing, of preventing what had happened, but as Hawke trembled in his arms he just couldn’t find the words. Nothing seemed enough.

He held himself rigid as he held her, as if she might shatter like a frozen soap bubble at any moment. Never before had the strong, battle-hardened rogue seemed so fragile and breakable. Then he was reminded of her expression as he turned from her on that night, he felt rotten. He had no right to be here, comforting her. He had no right to be holding her. She should hate him, and a spiteful part of him said that if he was to push her away now, she very well might. But he couldn’t. For all the wanting to push her away, to keep her distant, he felt himself drawn to her. It seemed as if they were constantly in each other’s company, and when they were not, Fenris couldn’t help but think of her. And worry. The thought of losing her further than he already had, was enough to break him. Slowly, he let himself relax slightly as her grip loosened.

Hawke began to sag against him, her breathing slowing and hands sliding down his back only for her fingers to brush against the skin through the gap at the back of his armour. At the touch, Fenris swallowed thickly, forcefully pushing himself away from Hawke, who had begun to fall asleep. Looking up at him with red, puffy eyes, her cheeks mottled and damp, she simply stared at him with a confused expression. _What have I done,_ it asked, imploringly, _to make you like this?_

He sighed, gently pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You should go to bed, Hawke. Sleep.” Her confused expression turned alarmed at that, eyes wide and tears threatening to fall again. She shook and pressed herself up against him again, holding him tightly as if he was about to disappear.

“Please stay, Fenris. Please…I,” her weak voice faltered and she forced down another fit of sobbing that threatened to spill over. “I don’t think I could bear to be alone tonight. Even if you just take the spare room, I need you close. Please.”

She was practically whimpering and he utterly hated the sound. It reminded him so much of a slave girl pleading to her master, the very thought made his stomach churn. Perhaps Hawke was not as strong as he first thought she was. “If you truly need me here, I will take the spare room.” It was not a hard choice. He could either leave her, vulnerable and alone, and succeed in pushing her away for good - or he could stay, and risk complicating their relationship even further. Considering their connection was already becoming the talk of their little group thanks to the nosy dwarf and gossiping pirate, and Fenris himself had no idea what they were to each other anymore, he doubted putting Hawke’s mind at ease would muddy the waters much further.

He felt Hawke relax at his reply, and she squeezed him tightly once before pulling away completely. Oddly, the feeling of her body heat withdrawing from him caused a faint wave of panic shoot through him, but he would wonder at it later. Hawke smiled at him, weak and watery, but seemingly brighter. He followed her as she made for her bedroom, wanting to hold her hand, wrap a protective arm around her waist but unable to let himself. Inwardly he chastised himself for his cowardice, and had to smother his scowl as she turned when the reached her door. They stood in silence for a moment until Fenris decided that he could take it no longer. “Try to sleep, Hawke. I will be here.” He hoped it sounded reassuring.

Hawke was silent for a few seconds, her face unreadable as she stared at him before the hint of her usual, warm smile became apparent. In a swift movement, faster than Fenris could react, she had placed the lightest of kisses on his cheek with a barely audible whisper: “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO: I am looking for cheerful prompts for the next few shots. All I've got so far is depression, depression and more depression. I'm tempted to write a Hanged Man scene set after 'Alone'. Or one set during MotA, which in my head!canon occurs after 'Alone' too. I need something, anything to lift the mood ;_;


	4. New Years Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was rather drunk when I wrote this, I'd had 3/4 of a bottle of wine and my fingers didn't like doing what I told them.
> 
> And yes, I know I deviate from the canon. But sod it, I can do what I like. Can't believe they'd not even touch each other for three years. Psh. Implausible.

The Hanged Man was never normally quiet. Only in the small hours of the morning did it's usual lively atmosphere simmer down to a dull roar. Right now, Hawke dearly wished that it was the small hours of the morning. She had been dragged into the tavern by Isabela, who had long since lost interest and was now chatting up some unsuspecting dock worker over at the bar. To her credit, Hawke had decided to stick out the evening and not flee back to her mansion in Hightown as soon as she was given a moment to herself. But she had been nursing that one pint of ale for the entire night and even though she was trying her hardest, Varric could see that she was struggling to keep up with the conversation she was in. He could see the strain in the smile that didn't reach her eyes; hear the weariness in her voice; saw the way her shoulders would sag when she thought no one was looking.

If he thought back to the previous few days, she had seemed out of sorts then but not to the same extent. It had been building in the background for a while now, it just took him until now to see it. She was teetering on the brink of exhaustion and only now was he starting to see the cracks. It was amazing how the woman had been able to hide it until now. All that stress. All that loss. All that heartache. And she kept on with a bright smile on her face and a quick comment on her lips. Perhaps it should have been more obvious, because as the year went down and the business with the Qunari came to a head, the sarcastic and witty Hawke was ever-so-slowly replaced by someone who was downright aggressive to anyone that wasn't in her little group of companions. It had started with the loss of Leandra and grown from there. The whole business with Mother Petrice and the Arishok just seemed to speed up the process.

Even now, months after she was titled as Champion, her demeanour wasn't improving. True, it wasn't getting worse - but if Varric was any judge, the hostile edge was just being dulled by a general weariness. He had been pretending to sketch for a good hour, and to be fair, he had managed to get her basic outline down. And as he looked down at his pencil drawing and the real thing, he realised just how low she looked. Thumbing through the pages of his sketchbook, he stopped at each drawing he'd done of Hawke when she was in the tavern. Most were just her sitting and talking to her companions, but none had the sagging outline she now occupied.

Merrill had wandered off with a smile on her face and left Hawke alone with her mug of ale, just staring into the lacquered cup. Now totally alone, Varric truly saw the damage. Heavy shoulders, deep bruising under her eyes, pale lips. Hawke, their gorgeous, vibrant leader that commanded attention, was now slipping into the background. He didn't know if she was doing it on purpose, and she was almost as good at stealth as Isabela, or if she was doing it subconsciously. Either way, it was working. People were suddenly leaving her alone.

The door opened with a blast of cold Haring air and a sudden flurry of snowflakes as if to remind everyone what time of year it was. It was shut just as quickly and Fenris hung his cloak up on the peg next to the one with a hood lined in white fur - Hawke's own. Varric couldn't help but smile at that small thing as he glanced over to Hawke. She too had noticed the elf enter, but alarmingly, she only had only faintly brightened. Normally, his appearance would have made her smile and wave him over. Instead, she watched him with impassive eyes. He hadn't noticed her either. She really wasn't being seen. It was so unusual, as if she had some kind of invisibility cloak that hid her from anyone apart from Varric.

His attention drifted between the elf and Hawke as she watched him at the bar. Varric noticed the flicker of a flinty emotion flash across her face as Isabela sauntered casually over to Fenris and began pawing at him. Even Varric frowned at that, more puzzled than anything. The Rivaini had told him specifically that she'd only flirt with Fenris if Hawke was in earshot, simply because she wanted to provoke jealousy in their illustrious leader. She was as bad as Merrill was when it came to pairing them together, only her idea of encouragement was somewhat…unorthodox. But the tipsy flirting that the pirate was doing now was so far removed from what she had said she'd do. He even felt uncomfortable for the elf, who was doing his best to put distance between himself and the pirate.

Sudden movement pulled his attention back to Hawke, who had downed her pint in one go and stood suddenly. For a moment, Varric thought she'd go over to the bar and physically put herself between Isabela and Fenris. But instead, she just rolled her shoulders and walked towards the door.

Fenris paused in his attempts to rid himself of Isabela when he saw Hawke stride past him without so much as a glance in his direction. In an instant he saw what it had taken Varric most of the night to see. The tiredness, the cracks. Something wasn't right with Hawke, and even though he should leave her alone, he was already moving to follow her.

As the elf vanished back out into the cold night, Isabela slid into the seat opposite Varric, a sly grin on her face.

* * *

Throwing his cloak back over his shoulders, Fenris attempted to locate Hawke's disappearing shape with no result. She was moving fast, and he figured that the only place she would go that fast was home. He decided to follow her at double pace, not quite jogging but certainly moving a lot faster than he predicted she was going. It worked, as he turned the corner he saw her just starting to climb the second set of steps that lead up to Hightown. He took the steps two at a time, quickly reaching the bottom of the flight she was on. "Hawke, wait"

For a moment, he thought she would ignore him, but her pace suddenly faltered and she stopped. She didn't turn around though, and her shoulders had tensed. He watched her fidget slightly before she sighed. "I'm just going home, Fenris. Return to the tavern, it's warmer there."

The quiver in her voice, the rough edge that came with lack of sleep and the dark undertones that suggested she had one hell of a headache, caused him to climb the steps between them. She wasn't going to just dismiss him like that. He wasn't going to allow it. At the very least, he could walk her home. Or, if she wouldn't allow that, he could shadow her. She was not herself and she was unarmed (apart from, perhaps, a hidden dagger or two). He didn't feel comfortable in letting her make the trip from Lowtown to Hightown alone. She tugged off her hood, sending the gathered snowflakes off the waxed surface in a flurry, her breath escaping as a puff of white air. In the pale light, Fenris could see how tired she truly looked. The shadows under her eyes looks so much darker, her eyes didn't sparkle like they used to. And she refused to meet his gaze.

"Please, Fenris. I…" Her voice broke, hoarse and ragged.

"There is something wrong, Hawke. You cannot pretend that there isn't." No anger, no demand. Nothing but concern. He had never seen her like this, not even after the death of her mother - and she had been a complete mess after that. But she had bounced back quickly, life demanded it. But now that the Qunari threat had been removed, that mass murderers had been put out of commission and all other problems solve, there was some semblance of peace. But unlike those few years of peace after the Deep Roads, where Hawke could spend her time both getting her family home back and then getting it to a liveable state for her mother, she now had nothing. A big empty house with just her servants and her dog for company. And with nothing to occupy her mind, her thoughts were consuming her. It hurt him to see it. To see her like this.

"Wrong?" She said, flashing him a winning smile that never reached her eyes. "Why would there be anything wrong?"

He sighed. "You tell me, Hawke. Why  _would_ there be anything wrong?"

"No reason at all. I have a home, I have enough coin to live like a queen. I have a city that adores me, I have friends to drink with. It doesn't matter that…" Her breath hitched as she snatched her gaze from his. "It doesn't matter that my mother has joined my father and brother. It doesn't matter that my sister is locked in the Gallows. Or that the man I -" She cut herself off, stopping herself from saying whatever it was she was going to say, chewing on her lip vigorously.

The wind whipped up an icy blast that shot down the stairs like a bolt from Bianca, whipping the snow up into miniature whirlwinds and sending Hawke's hair into her face. Her eyes now hidden, she shivered against the cold and drew her cloak closer to her. The snow was increasing in intensity, drifting against the walls, steps and statues of Kirkwall and making the City of Chains look almost pretty. But Fenris's eyes never left the woman in front of him.

"You know, Fenris, if you would prefer to be with Isabela, I would give you my blessing."

He blinked at her, utterly knocked sideways by what she had just said. Isabela? She thought he wanted that pirate harlot? Even though he had quite obviously been trying to lose her attention that night in the tavern; even though he spent most of his time fending off her advances and tell her politely that she was barking up the wrong tree? Did she really, truly think that he would go for a woman who's only want was to add him to her extensive list of conquests? It hit him like a charging bronto. She did. In this strange state of mind, where doubt and defeat and loneliness ruled, her thoughts had been warped. And he was partly to blame. That one night of passion followed by what? Pretending it never happened. Reading lessons, dinners at her estate with her mother and polite conversation. They had only ever spoken of it once, and only once. She had told him that her feelings hadn't changed, and if he was true to himself then neither had his. It was his own stupid fear that stopped him going back to her.

Fear of what had come back to him that night, fear that Danarius might get word that he was involved with a woman and paint a target on her back. Fear that one day she might take back those three little words that never left his head. All he could say to her was a dumb "I'm sorry?"

She frowned, not liking at having to repeat what caused her discomfort in the first place. "I said that if you-"

"I heard what you said, Hawke. I just don't understand why you said it."

"But…It's obvious that you like her, and she most certainly likes you. And we…Anyway, if she's what you want -"

"I don't want Isabela, Hawke."

"Oh…well."

She looked down at her hands, watching her gloved fingers as she knotted them together. Fenris followed the movement, watching her for a moment before stilling her fingers with his own. Heaving a heavy sigh, he lifted one hand to run a thumb across the apple of her cheek, the point of his gauntlet gently brushing the skin as she leaned into his palm as if on instinct. Even this little thing seemed to make her lift slightly, seemed to make those shadows under her eyes less dark.

"There's only one person I want, and it's not Isabela."

"Oh?" She breathed out a laugh, that old familiar spark of mischief back in her eyes after what seemed for an eternity of absence. "And who might that be?"

Her answer was his lips on hers so suddenly that she gasped in surprise, an opportunity for him to deepen the kiss, his fingers sliding around to tangle in her hair. And when she responded in kind, he pulled her close. It wasn't long, but it felt like forever and left them both breathless.

Foreheads together, Hawke was vaguely aware of the Chantry bells sounding midnight high over Kirkwall and she smiled through panted breaths. "First Day, Fenris. Happy new year."

"Happy new year, Hawke."


End file.
